


Five Times Bill Mulder Never Told His Son He Loved Him

by memories_child



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Community: xf_santa, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:39:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memories_child/pseuds/memories_child
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Bills Mulder never told his son he loved him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Bill Mulder Never Told His Son He Loved Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> **Spoilers:** Pre-series but references to various eps throughout S1-9.  
>  **Disclaimer:** The X Files, unfortunately, does not belong to me. Much as I'd love to say I came up with the idea.  
>  **Author's Notes:** This was written for for LJ's 2011 xf_santa gift exchange. The request was for fic that explores Mulder's complicated relationship with his father, but which doesn't portray Mulder's dad as a horrific child abuser. I really hope I've managed to do that here. It's my own (potted) version of what happened before Mulder joined the FBI and discovered the X Files. One day I'll write the whole thing. Many thanks to amalnahurriyeh for the beta. All remaining mistakes (especially on sections iii and iv) are my own.

i. There are stars beginning to pinprick the sky when they finally come inside. It is late, ten-thirty; Samantha was in bed long ago. Fox climbs onto the kitchen counter, all long legs and floppy hair that obscures his eyes. He tosses the baseball into the air, catching it easily in his gloved hand.

“Mind you don’t hit the lightshade.” Bill pulls a face that’s half scowl, half teasing. “Your mom will kill you. And then me,” he adds, an afterthought. Fox tosses the ball higher in response. They smile at each other.

Bill pulls a carton of milk from the fridge door and grabs two glasses from the cupboard above the sink. The milk sloshes over the edge of the glass as he pours and for a second he’s back in his mother’s kitchen, the same age Fox is now. The heady scent of lavender and sage fills the air as the porch door bangs gently in the summer breeze and he gulps down a tall glass of cool milk. Thirty years ago and it feels like only yesterday.

“What are you thinking about, Dad?” Fox is staring at him, a curious look in his dark eyes. Bill falters for a second, wondering how he can explain that singular nostalgia for summers lost to his ten year old son.

“I was thinking about when I was your age,” he says. “Pitching ball with my friends until while the sun went down, sneaking cookies and milk out of the fridge before bed.” He laughs. “I guess some things never change.”

They share a conspiratorial look as he passes his son a cookie and a glass of milk. _Make the most of it,_ he thinks as he watches Fox drink. _It seems like it only lasts a second and then it’s gone. And you’re grown up. And things, things have changed._

“Okay,” he says when Fox is done. “Time for bed. I want you to clean your teeth before you go to sleep, you hear? And don’t wake your sister on your way up.”

Fox jumps easily to the floor and heads to the door.

“Night, Dad,” he says, turning. Framed by the light from the hallway he looks at once familiar and strange and Bill thinks he can see, for a second, the man he might become. He hopes, as futile as that hope may be, that he becomes a better man than his father.

“Night, son.”

ii. It has been nearly a month since Samantha was taken. Teena has refused to speak to him, slamming the door in his face each time he ventures into the bedroom. She’s been taking pills to help her sleep, to numb the pain that little bit so she doesn’t see her baby girl’s face when she closes her eyes. Bill wishes that he could do the same, but he’s the reason she’s gone and he feels some twisted sense of obligation to her. Someone needs to feel the pain; to let it sit on their chest when they wake from troubled sleep at three a.m. and walk the heavy yards to her bedroom and her empty bed. He’s resisted the urge to curl up in her sheets so far. Resisted the urge to line her stuffed toys up on her dresser, one by one, and confess everything to them. He doesn’t believe in atonement, how can he with the line of work he’s in, but he thinks that if only he could let the words out someone – she – might understand.

Whisky has become his sleeping pill of choice. The bottles stashed in the bottom drawer of the dresser for special occasions (Glenfiddich, Jim Beam) are pulled out night after night now. He drinks them neat, throwing them back as though the burning in his throat might somehow atone for what he’s done.

He stumbles down the hallway, bleary eyed, head pounding. It’s one in the morning and the house is quiet. Teena stopped crying sometime round midnight, and he can hear her heavy breathing as he passes her door. He stops outside Fox’s bedroom. He’s barely been able to look at the boy since the night Samantha disappeared. He sees his daughter in the curve of Fox’s smile, the way his eyes droop before he falls asleep. He’s been second-guessing his decision ever since he made it. Should he have chosen Fox instead? Should he have let his eldest be taken? That way madness lies, he tells himself again and again, but it doesn’t stop the thoughts from burrowing into his head and making a nest in the corners of his mind.

He pushes the door open, careful not to let it make a noise. Fox sleeps like he’s just run a marathon; the sheets lie tangled around his waist, his legs askew, and his feet hang over the edge of the bed. His eyes roam beneath his eyelids and Bill wonders what he dreams about. Whatever it is, he hopes it’s happy. The curtains are open wide and a full moon casts its light over the divan. Bill knows Fox sits at the window for hours each night, watching for Samantha. He’s fallen asleep there more times than Bill can count, and the glimmer of hope in his eyes as Bill rouses him from sleep is more than he can bear. _She’s never coming back,_ he wants to say, if only to stop the pain in his chest when his son looks at him like he can make it all okay. _She’s never coming back, and it’s my fault._ But instead he hauls his son to his feet and pushes him to the bed.

He crosses the room, careful not to trip over the piles of baseball cards Fox has laid along the carpet. “I’m sorry,” he whispers as he pulls the curtains closed and leaves his son alone in the darkened room.

iii. By some strange consensus, though neither he nor Teena have discussed it, they converge at Fox’s door at the same time. It is late evening, summer, and he is reminded of the night five years ago when he and Fox played baseball in the yard long after Teena and Samantha had fallen asleep. The lavender is in full flower outside and the scent wafts in through the open windows. He can hear the sound of the radio in Fox’s room, the melody rolling through the door and escaping into the night.

He and Teena don’t look at each other. Silently, she pushes open the door and he follows her inside. Fox looks up from his desk where he is poring over a collection of Asimov’s short stories. He scowls at them; Bill can’t remember the last time Fox looked at them with anything other than barely disguised hatred. He wonders, again, what goes on in his son’s head. Does he blame them for Samantha’s disappearance? Does he suspect the truth about his father’s involvement, his mother’s relationship with dad’s old colleague? He’s never said a word, to Bill at least, but still he wonders what his son knows that he’s not letting on.

Teena sinks to the bed and motions Fox to sit next to her. He doesn’t move. Bill hovers in the doorway, unsure of the protocol. He doesn’t know anyone else who’s had to do this; his work colleagues are either happily married or happy bachelors. Even if he did, he wouldn’t know how to ask. It’s not exactly water-cooler material, especially not in the Bureau. He settles for leaning against the door jamb and letting Teena start.

“Fox, your father and I have decided that it would be best for us all if he moved out. You may have noticed that things haven’t been right between us for some time –” she glances at Bill. He forces down a mirthless laugh. He’s slept on the pull out bed in the study since Samantha was taken; some time is an understatement.

“Things haven’t been right since Samantha disappeared,” she continues, “and it’s not fair on anyone, least of all you, for us to continue to pretend that everything is fine.”

“You’re getting a divorce.” The statement falls heavily in the room; it’s not a question.

Teena glances at Bill again. “Yes, we are. We aren’t going to lie to you, Fox. Your father is going to move out, just a few miles down the road so you’ll still be able to see him as often as you like.”

“But you’re breaking up because of what happened the night Samantha was taken. The night you left me in charge.” Fox stares at his desk. The garish spaceman on the cover of the Asimov book stares up at him. Bill can’t help but think of that night, of what Fox says he saw. He wonders if this is why the boy is drawn to stories of men from outer space, if this is why he sleeps with the curtains pulled wide.

“Yes. But you mustn’t think that it’s your fault. It has nothing to do with you, Fox. This is just between your father and me, and we still love you. We always will.”

Bill doesn’t say a word.

iv. They arrive at the airport at eleven p.m., far too early for Fox’s four a.m. flight. The three of them shared a car on the way up, crammed together in a space far too small for the three of them. Bill drove; Fox in the passenger seat, gripping his tickets; Teena in the back seat. Bill watched her out of the rear view mirror, glancing at the tight set of her jaw. She brushed occasional tears away impatiently, staring out of the window at the city passing in a blur of shadows and orange streetlights. They circled the parking lot three times before Bill found a space. He hauled Fox’s bag out of the trunk. So little luggage for three years overseas, though he knows, logically, that Fox will be home for Christmas in just three months’ time.

They make their way through the airport to check-in and deposit Fox’s bag. The girl at the desk asks his destination and smiles when he tells he’s going to study at Oxford. “Psychology,” he says, and grins a lopsided grin. Bill and Teena exchange glances. Their son will break some hearts in England. Bags checked they find a stall selling coffee and bagels and buy three cups. The airport lounge chairs are hard an uncomfortable, and they perch uneasily, glancing at the other passengers populating the sparse hall. The minutes tick by slowly.

“Passengers for flight BA131 for London, Heathrow, please make your way to gate one.” The tinny tannoy announcement echoes around the room.

“I guess that’s me,” Fox says.

They all stand. Fox bends to kiss his mother, holding tightly to her hand as she whispers her last goodbyes in his ear. His eyes are dry; hers glisten with tears. “I’ll be fine, mom,” he says, impatient. Bill reads the subtext – _I’m going to another country where no one knows me as the boy whose sister was abducted, the boy with the fucked up family._ He can’t blame Fox for thinking that.

Teena finally releases her son and he turns to Bill. The stand awkwardly for a moment. Bill doesn’t know what to say to the son he can barely recognize. He’s become a confident young man, more confident than Bill was at that age, though he’s sure part of it at least is an act. In the end he settles for a handshake, firm, and steady, not betraying the emotion he really feels.

“Have a safe flight,” he says. “Let your mother know that you’ve arrived okay. I’ll see you at Christmas.”

“Yeah, see you at Christmas,” Fox replies. He walks away without a backward glance.

v. The spires of Oxford are a welcome relief after the hustle of Heathrow airport. The city is soothing; soft afternoon light hits the old stone and he can almost feel it warming him, settling his tired bones. The jetlag is slowly sinking in after his seven hour flight and he’s looking forward to getting to his hotel.

He’s staying in a small bed and breakfast on Walton Crescent, a little side street that overlooks a stream. The university is spread out a few streets away, though he isn’t entirely sure where the college at which his son studied lies. He isn’t entirely sure that his son knows he’s here, or if he’ll speak to him if he does. He can barely remember the last time he spoke to Fox. He got a phone call from Teena when Fox’s Master’s degree results were posted, which is how he knows his son will be graduating with top honours. He didn’t hear from Fox.

Teena had arrived for the graduation ceremony yesterday. Bill was sure Fox had met her at the airport and escorted her back to the flat he’s been renting from one of his professors. Fox had always been closer to his mother than Bill. Bill had written to him three weeks ago, telling him that he was in the country anyway and if he happened to be free the day of the graduation he’d see if he could fit it in. He didn’t think he could bear to tell the truth, that the only reason he’s flown all this way is to see his son graduate. He isn’t sure when he and Fox became so distant; isn’t sure what he can do now to change it; certainly isn’t sure that flying halfway around the world is enough.

The cab pulls up to the B&B and the driver hauls Bill’s case to the front door. He pays and tips the man and rings the bell. He hears the gate clang a second time and measured footsteps echo up the garden path.

“I guess you were free then. Mom told me where you were staying at dinner last night.”

Bill recognises the barely disguised barb in his son’s voice; _Teena_ took Fox out to dinner. Teena was the one who flew all this way just to celebrate her son’s graduation. And probably somewhere expensive, if Bill knows her as well as he thinks he does. Much more expensive than Fox would be able to afford. He turns to face his son.

“Business concluded earlier than I had expected so I thought I’d come and watch you graduate. See what you’ve been doing with yourself the last few years.”

Fox flinches, ever so slightly, but Bill recognises the look that crosses his face. It’s the look of a boy trying desperately to please his father and knowing that he never will. He turns, presses the bell again.

“I’ve been working, dad. I’m graduating at the top of my MA group, from Oxford, one of the most prestigious universities. I’ve written monographs, published papers. Made a real difference.”

Bill knows the impact of Fox’s work; has seen the ripples of interest in the Bureau which came with the Monty Props case. People congratulate him on his son’s success, pat him on the back and tell him he must be proud. Through the frosted glass pane he can see the shape of someone coming towards the door.

“I heard about the Props case,” is all he says. “Not bad work for someone with no real experience.” As soon as he says the word he realises it was the wrong choice. He can feel Fox bristle behind him and he wants to take it back, tell his son he did a good job, that he’s proud of him. But it’s too late.

“I’ve been offered a job at the FBI,” Fox says. “I’ve accepted it. Don’t bother watching me graduate.”

The door opens as Fox walks away, the sound of his steps receding down the street. Bill closes his eyes.


End file.
